Saturday, February 28, 2015

Find out if Seth will be able to show Josie the true meaning of love in,

That's a Lie

the sequel to That's a Promise.

TITLE:That’s a Lie (Promises, Promises #2)

AUTHOR:Victoria Klahr

GENRE:Contemporary Adult, New Adult

RE-RELEASED:February 27, 2015

SYNOPSIS:

Seth is back.

When he walked back into my life, it almost felt like the pieces of my broken heart could be fixed. I thought we could go back to being best friends, but then I started to feel what I had been blocking out for years. I tried. Boy, did I try! But once I started to let him in, I wanted nothing more than to cross that line from friendship into something more…

Just when I think I can move on and let myself be happy, an ugly reminder from my past comes storming in and threatens to destroy the sliver of hope that's been growing since Seth came back.

Do I even deserve to be loved?

“I’m not asking to fix your heart. I’m not asking to mend you. I love each and every shattered piece of you. I’m asking that you let me love you. Let me love each piece of your broken heart, and I swear to you I will make up for every heartache you have ever experienced.”

I came back for Josie.

I knew I'd have to fight for her, but with the loss of her dad and the truth about what happened with her and Blake, I quickly realized that making her mine was going to be a lot harder than I first thought. The problem is, I can’t pretend like she’s just my best friend. I can’t pretend I don’t want more.

I'm willing to do anything to get her to admit she has the same passionate feelings for me, because I know once she opens up and stops lying to herself, I can show her what it really means to be loved. It's a battle of wills, but my love for her is stronger than her will to stop me.

Victoria Klahr (pronounced “Claire”) lives in North Carolina with her husband, daughter, and furbaby, Stephen, Alexis, and Bandit. When she’s not daydreaming about book boyfriends and fantasizing about being a badass heroine, she’s busy writing the stories that keep popping into her head. She’s currently finishing the Promises, Promises series and plotting multiple spin-offs.

We are so please to introduce brand new author Mia Storm with her debut release, Getting Dirty.

Releasing on March 19th

Dirty

A poem by Blaire Leon

If sex is dirty, why would I do it with someone
I love?

If sex is dirty, then didn’t we all come from
the dirt?

What if I like the dirt?

What if I want to get dirty?

What if I want to roll in the mud until I’m so
fucking filthy that I’ll never be clean again?

When twenty-five-year-old graduate assistant Caiden Brenner
asked Blaire Leon how old she was, she said she was a senior. He chose to
believe she meant in college. They connect over Lord Byron’s Don
Juan and, as their conversations become increasingly thicker with
sexual innuendo, Caiden finds himself obsessing over a totally off-limits
undergrad who’s bold, beautiful, brilliant, and one of the most passionate
poets he’s ever met.

But it turns out Blaire hasn't been totally honest. She's the
seventeen-year-old valedictorian of her high school class, taking courses at
Sierra State while awaiting her acceptance to Stanford.

Will Caiden get too deeply into Blaire to back away before he
finds out the truth? Or will their connection be enough to seduce him into
risking his entire future on Jail Bait?

"A thousand and one feels....Getting Dirty is a thrilling, tantalizing forbidden romance you do not want to miss! I not only devoured this book, it devoured me right back!"--Katy Evans, New York Times Bestselling author of REAL

“What year
are you?” I don’t even realize I’ve said it until it’s out of my mouth.

Her eyes
flick from the book to mine. “A senior.”

I feel my
eyebrows arch before I can stop them. “You look younger.”

She bites
her lips between her teeth for a moment. “Is that good or bad?”

“Neither, I
suppose.” But my insides burn, knowing that she’s not as off-limits as I
originally thought. It’s nearing the end of January. Commencement will be here
soon enough. She graduates and all bets are off.

“So…” she
says, twisting a finger into the ends of her hair. “I know you like old, dead
poets. How do you feel about hearing something fresher?”

I lean
toward her. “Such as?”

“I’m reading
in a poetry slam tonight. It’s just something over at Tino’s in Jonestown on
the fourth Friday of every month. There’s no prize money or anything, but I
perform something new pretty much every month.”

“A poetry
slam…” I want to say yes in the worst way, but it feels dangerously like a
date.

She must
read the hesitation in my eyes. “If it’s too weird, no worries. I just thought,
since you like poetry…”

She leaves
the thought dangling. Like a noose. And I jump right into it. “Yeah. Why not?”

The answer
to that rhetorical question is that it’s not May yet and she hasn’t graduated.
I’m risking everything I’ve worked the last three years toward. My entire
future. But the voice of reason is being drowned out by the raging waves of
something rolling up from the deepest layers of my being like an undertow.
Something base and essential. And unrelenting.

“Do you want
to meet me there?” she asks, standing from her seat and giving me a better view
of the entire exquisite length of her.

“Yeah…that’s
probably best.” Plausible deniability. No, Dr. Duncan, I didn’t have any clue
she’d be there. Just went to hear the poetry.

“Great,” she
says as she gathers her book and shoves it in her bag. “It starts at nine.
There are usually five or six poets and it’s a random draw, so I don’t know
what time I’ll be reading.”

I nod
without standing, no longer able to tame my erection. “I’ll be there at nine.”

Mia Storm is a hopeless romantic who is always searching for
her happy ending. Sometimes she’s forced to make one up. When that happens,
she’s thrilled to be able to share those stories with her readers. She lives in
California and spends much of her time in the sun with a book in one hand and a
mug of black coffee in the other, or hiking the trails in Yosemite. Connect
with her online at MiaStormAuthor.blogspot.com , on Twitter at @MiaStormAuthor,
and on Facebook at www.facebook.com/MiaStormAuthor.

An
object at rest stays at rest and an object in motion stays in motion with the
same speed and in the same direction unless acted upon by an unbalanced force.
~ Newton’s First Law of Motion

Brandon “Brand” Carmichael’s life
was the stuff dreams were made of…too bad it was an illusion. As a guitarist
for Inert Motion, Brandon traveled the world, performing with his brothers in
all but blood. He never stopped moving all the while his mind played in a never‑ending
loop. Now outside influences have changed the band’s course, leaving Brand’s
life void of the balance he craved. Once again, his dream had become a
recurring nightmare. Brand coped the only way he knew how; retreat into
solitude.

The
acceleration of an object as produced by a net force is directly proportional
to the magnitude of the net force, in the same direction as the net force, and
inversely proportional to the mass of the object. ~ Newton’s Second Law of
Motion

Magdalena “Layna” Delacroix had
achieved the long sought goal of her Ph.D. in Psychology, but success came at a
high cost: over one hundred thousand dollars in debt. After being presented
with the opportunity to fulfill her desire to help someone in the aftermath of tragedy,
along with earning enough money to clear her debt and start a psychology
practice of her own, Layna had to balance the means against the outcome. Could
she be the force to stop the downward spiral of someone who refused to seek
help?

For
every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. ~ Newton’s Third Law
of Motion

Neither Brand nor Layna expected the
reaction they had to one another. It was the opposite of everything they
sought.

Could Layna live a lie while pushing
Brand to live in the truth?

Would Brand forgive her for
committing the one unforgivable sin he couldn’t overlook?

Or was he branded by destiny to be
Reft…

AUTHOR
BIO:

One day some words came to mind, so I wrote
them down. Soon the words became sentences, which formed paragraphs, which, in
turn, formed chapters. Before long, those few words had become a book.

When I’m not reading or writing, I’m a wife, mother, and business owner. I’ve
lived on both coast and few places in between, but as born and raised Southern
girl, I’ll always believe there’s no place like home.

When Tess Tremaine starts a new life in the colorful town of Goose Pimple Junction, curiosity leads her to look into a seventy-five-year-old murder. Suddenly she’s learning the foreign language of southern speak, resisting her attraction to local celebrity Jackson Wright, and dealing with more mayhem than she can handle.

A bank robbery, murder, and family tragedy from the 1930s are pieces of the mystery that Tess attempts to solve. As she gets close to the truth, she encounters danger, mystery, a lot of southern charm, and a new temptation for which she’s not sure she’s ready.

Goose Pimple Junction is just recovering from a kidnapping and a murder, its first major crimes in years, when trouble begins anew. Life is turned upside down in the quirky little Southern town with the arrival of several shifty hooligans: A philandering husband intent on getting his wife back, another murderer loose in town, a stalker intent on frightening Martha Maye, and a thief who’s stealing the town blind of their pumpkins, pies, and peace. Together, they’re scaring the living daylights out of the residents and keeping the new police chief busier than a set of jumper cables at a redneck picnic. Suddenly, he has his hands full trying to apprehend a killer, stop a stalker, and fight his feelings for the damsel in distress.

About the author:

Amy Metz is the author of Murder & Mayhem In Goose Pimple Junction. She is a former first grade teacher and the mother of two sons. When not actively engaged in writing, enjoying her family, or surfing Facebook or Pinterest, Amy can usually be found with a mixing spoon, camera, or book in one hand and a glass of sweet tea in the other. Amy lives in Louisville, Kentucky.

Lenny
drove to his neighborhood bar with the windows wide open and Johnny Cash
blaring on the radio, but he was oblivious to both. He was thinking about the
phone conversation he’d just had with his ten-year-old daughter Carrie. It made him crazy the way her mother’s family
called her “Butterbean.” What kind of a name was that for a child? But
today he was crazy for a whole new reason. Jealousy and anger tore through him
faster than small-town gossip. His daughter had spilled
everything, and just when he thought he’d finally gotten a break, she said,
“Mama kinda had a boyfriend but not anymore.” And: “Mama was kidnapped,
but she’s back now.”

He pulled into the parking lot of the bar
thinking,Boyfriend? We literally aren’t
even divorced yet and she hada
boyfriend? He pounded his fist against the steering wheel. He knew she’d
been cheating on him. And now she’d
done it right in front of their daughter. No doubt about it, he
was going to have to do something about this Martha Maye situation.

Pulling into a primo spot at the front
door, he looked up at the old rusty sign that had been over the entrance
for years:Teetotalers
ain’t welcome here. He winced at the loud screech announcing his car
door opening, followed by the same screech when he slammed it shut. He glanced
around the parking lot and saw the same cars that were there every night. His
feet crunched on the gravel as he walked, and he remembered
waking up three months earlier and slowly realizing his wife and
daughter weren’t there.

The familiar bacon and coffee smells were gone.
Cartoons weren’t blaring on the TV. His wife’s clothes were missing, along with
his daughter’s, her teddy bear, and her dolls. The bookshelves were dotted with
bare spots where Martha Maye’s favorite knickknacks and paddywhacks had been.
And then he saw the note on the kitchen table that said she was divorcing
him and that he shouldn’t try to find them.
The realization that she’d left him in the middle of the night and taken their
daughter seared through him like a red-hot poker.

Pretty stealthy for a woman who could literally
be outwitted by a jar of marshmallow fluff. If she thinks she can literally run
out on me and then humiliate me by going out with some scumbag before we’re
even divorced, she has another thinkcoming.
I’ll show her. I’ll put on the charm and win her back.

Country music blasted as he opened the door,
turned his head, and spit in disgust. She literally can’t be let her out by
herself. Just look where it got her: kidnapped and almost killed.

His daughter had told
him they’d been staying at his mother-in-law’s house. He should have figured.
He’d always known Louetta to be a meddlesome old biddy. She lied to me when
I called looking for my wife and daughter. She aided and abetted a woman leaving
her husband. She allowed nefarious suitors to court my wife.Both of
them must have literally stopped to think and forgotten how to start again.

And then there was his no-account,
good-for-nothing
brother who, upon learning of the impending divorce, wanted to know if Lenny
would mind if he dated Martha Maye. Boy, I’m gonna slap you so hard,
when you quit rolling your clothes’ll literally be outta style. My baby brother
and my wife. Yeah. Over my dead body. How could he even ask such a thing? Both
of them were nothing but a bunch of backstabbing
traitors.

He hitched up his jeans under his overflowing
beer belly, swaggered into the bar, and ordered a Colt 45. The jukebox was
playing, “I Want a Beer as Cold
as My Ex-Wife’s Heart,” and he thought
that was pretty darn perfect for his life at the moment.

Looking around the room, he spotted a hot blonde
giving him the eye. He sucked in his gut—a
move that didn’t yield the desired result—and
looked back, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. She brazenly smiled back at
him.

How dare Martha Maye leave me? I can literally
get any woman I want. And two on Saturday.

A football star in high school, homecoming king,
and voted best looking his senior year, Lenny was used to women coming onto
him, not leaving him. He put the bottle to his lips and downed half of it.

That woman was literally lucky to have me. Sure,
I’ve put on a little weight, but only in the gut. I practically have to fight
women off with a stick. Looking around the room again, he saw female eyes on him
from several tables in the room. Yessirree, sir, I still got it.

Lenny started to lift his bottle to his mouth again
but halted midway
when two men sat down heavily on barstools on either side of him; they looked
capable of eating their young. Both men were muscular and tough. One was as
tall as a telephone pole. One was as short as a gnat’s tail. The taller man had
black eyes under bushy eyebrows, and the other man wore aviator sunglasses on a
flat, wide nose. He pushed the glasses to the top of his head to give Lenny his
best glare.

“We’ve been looking all over Hell and half of
Georgia for you, boy.” Eyebrows scooted his stool in close, crowding Lenny.

“Shoot.”
Lenny’s hand automatically moved to his ankle holster, checking for his knife.
“That don’t surprise me none. You
literally couldn’t find oil with a dipstick.”

“Solly says he’s had about enough of you,”
Eyebrows said.

“Yeah,” Mr. Gnat joined in, “he’s had about
enough of you.”

Lenny snorted. “You can tell Solly to blow it
out his butt,” Lenny said boldly,more
boldly than he felt. He shelled a peanut, popped it in his mouth,
and threw the shell into Mr. Gnat’s face.

“Solly says not to let you off the hook this
time.”

“Yeah, not to let you off the hook.” Mr. Gnat’s
left eye twitched.

“What’s with Mr. Echo over here?” Lenny pointed
his thumb at the short man.

The telephone pole ignored him and said, “Solly
says you’ve screwed him over for the last time.”

“Yeah, the last time.”

“I didn’t screw him over the first time.” Lenny
drained his bottle. He felt like his mouth was
full of cotton. “Solly wouldn’t tell the truth to save his life
from dying.” Lenny tried to stand up, but the men had him penned in.

“You can’t talk about Solly that way.”

“Yeah, not that way,” Mr. Gnat echoed.

Eyebrows looked behind Lenny to his friend.
“This boy has the mental agility of a soap dish, Joey.”

“Yeah, a soap dish.”

Lenny leaned in real close to Joey, who said,
“Whatta you think you’re doing?”

“Just wondered if I got close enough if I could
literally hear the ocean.”

“Boy, what you need is an education,” Eyebrows
said.

“Yeah, an edj-ee-cation.” Gnat strung the word
out.

The men grabbed Lenny’s arms, lifting him off
his stool. The song on the jukebox had ended, and Lenny heard the crunch of
peanut shells as the men propelled him toward the door.

“Boys, y’all best not be messing with me,” Lenny
snapped, trying to break free.

“That’s mighty big talk for a punk like you.”
They stepped aside as someone came through the door, and then they threw Lenny through
it. He landed on the ground but sprang right
back to his feet, his dukes up, ready to fight.

Eyebrows was fast. He knocked Lenny to the
ground again with a left hook. Joey followed up with two kicks to the ribs.

Lenny pulled himself into a ball, both to
protect himself from further harm and to have better access to his ankle
holster. But Joey saw the knife and kicked it away as Lenny drew it
from his pants leg.

The men both grabbed
Lenny by an arm again, pulling him upright, and Eyebrows punched him in the
gut, causing him to double over. They double-teamed
him and left him on the ground bloody and beaten, as cars whizzed past on the
road in front of the bar.

Right before Lenny passed out, he thought: Tomorrow
I’ll pack up and head for Goose Pimple Junction to reclaim what’s rightfully
mine. I’ll literally be a devoted husband and father and get my family back. I
ain’t gonna let that woman leave me. Nobody leaves Lenny Applewhite.